The Scribbles of a RedHead
by DogsPajamas
Summary: Life three years after Deathly Hallows, with raging hormones and a new evil that is set on destroying everything we hold dear... Rest of summary inside Story - Diary Format PLEASE R&R! :


Ginny Weasley refuses to fade away, unable to age, she and the rest of the world lay in wait for another prophecy to be fulfilled. The world has been taken over by Dementor like creatures called the New Leaders and most of humanity has succumbed. There is only one who might have the ability to save them, but he is gone, missing. As outside forces grow more threatening, Ginny must set off to find the man she loves.

Not very good at summaries, sorry! :(

No copyright infringement intended.

Please R&R!

***

It was almost impossible for Harry Potter to realise the ever-nearing danger that had swept the land. He, for more than I, or anyone else for that matter, could remember, had been locked up, his soul destined to be forgotten. Not that I could ever forget him of course. I loved him, more than anything else in the world. I would never speak my thoughts aloud, though, for I feared no one would understand what I was saying. Love had long since been lost from the Earth, and anyone who spoke of it was considered a nut job.

I lean my head against the cold glass of the window, watching the rain as it falls from the sky. It rains almost every day now, and at the rare times when it doesn't rain and the sun skips merrily across the yellow fields and muddy pathways, the law is that you have to remain indoors. I used to have a light tan; now I'm almost as white as the walls of this house. The solemness of the colour bores me and I often try to fix it with a coat of red paint, but to no avail. The walls have obviously been charmed.

I hear a dull thud and look down at the street below. Another fist fight. This time between Ron and that muggle kid, Kieran. He often hangs out here, stirring up trouble and getting into fights with my brothers. I don't see why we just can't hex him, but mum says that even though the world is near its end, we still must stay in hiding, no matter how annoying the little muggle shit-bag is (her words, not mine).

Ron just popped him one around the face. He never wins though, my brother. Kieran's too small and quick. Even I have some trouble pinning him to the ground. But Ron hasn't been the same since _it_ happened. It's almost as if he's just drifted off into the unknown. I worry about him. He's turning into a body with no soul. Then again, most people are like that nowadays. I miss the Burrow. Its warm and cosy interior... This window ledge is getting uncomfortable, and as much as try to avoid looking at it, the painting in the corner of my room seems to draw me in with every breath I take.

That may be because it looks remarkably like Harry... No... It looks nothing like Harry; i'm looking at it now. There's no scar, no glasses, no shining green eyes, no lock of messy black hair. But there is a likeness there, somewhere, I just can't pinpoint it.

Ron's just been beaten... again and he's sporting a rather nasty black eye. Kieran's laughing. I've just spotted my wand balancing on the edge of my desk. I could hex him. The bat bogey hex springs to mind, but no, I couldn't do that to mum, she'd kill me. Oh, and here comes George. Kieran's got no hope now. George became quite the fighter after Fred... y'know... past away... Whack. Thud. Ouch. Blah dee blah dee blah... I can't be bothered to watch anymore. There's no point. It happens almost every day, and when it happens that often, it just gets boring. Like writing in this bloody diary for instance. I have no use of it, I've owned it for three years and still its pages lay empty. Until today, that is. I decided that, if the world is ending, whoever finds this book and has enough time on their hands to read it, deserves to know about what really happened, how this massive greatness of a planet was brought to its rather sticky end.

It started two years ago, when Harry Potter went missing. I remember it vividly, as if it were yesterday. My dreams make sure of that, or as they should be better named: nightmares.

It was 7:03 at night. We were all in the sitting room of the Burrow. Ron was snoozing in the armchair, mum was knitting, dad was reading the Evening Prophet and me and George were playing exploding snap. It was a calm and relaxed atmosphere, but there was definitely a tenseness in the air. Every time the clock chimed or an owl hooted, mum's gaze would flicker to window. It was as if she was waiting for someone, someone who, it turns out, would never come.

"Where's Harry?" she whispered urgently to dad. George didn't hear anything; he was too wrapped up in the game we were playing, and Ron was too busy snoring. But my ears were better than theirs' and I looked up curiously.

He merely shrugged, "Probably got caught up at the Ministry. He'll be here soon. You know Harry; he's never on time,"

"Yes, but six hours is pushing it a bit don't you think?" she said anxiously.

"Molly, dear, trust me. He'll be fine. Now look here! There's going to be a new edition of that muggle game; Connect 4 released free in tomorrow's Daily Prophet!" An excited smile had just appeared on his careworn face. He hadn't smiled like that since last Christmas, when George had bought him a rubber duck and a wand. It was a muggle wand. Couldn't do so much as make a rabbit appear out of a hat (which is quite barbaric in my opinion, that poor rabbit!). It was long, shiny (plastic) and black, with white ends. Pretty pathetic really, but dad loved it.

Mum sighed impatiently, "All you care about is that muggle shit these days! You never say hello to the kids anymore, never say hello to me even. You just jump in your stupid little armchair and read that god forsaken paper! You are a sad excuse for a wizard, Arthur!" It was like she'd forgotten me; Ron and George were still in the room (Ron and George had looked up from what they were doing at the sound of mum's angered voice).

"Molly..."

"Don't you Molly me!" she retorted, her lips pursed. "I'm sick of it, Arthur, sick of it! Harry Potter, who's been a family friend ever since he first set foot through this door, was supposed to be here six hours ago! He would have owled us or at least done something to let us know he was going to be late or not be able to make it, but we've heard nothing, not a word," She opened her mouth again as if to continue, but instead stormed off into the kitchen. That was the first time I ever heard mum swear. She's been doing it a lot lately, ever since that argument.

Dad just stared blankly at the wall opposite him, and me, Ron and George just gaped at each other in disbelief. It was only when mum told us to go to bed that we snapped back to reality. It was obvious Harry would not be coming that night, and I remember my heart sinking with worry and disappointment.

It was a week later when the name Harry Potter was spoken in our house again. It was shortly followed by a shrill shreak. "He's... missing?" The tears had already formed in mum's eyes when I appeared downstairs under her summons. Ron was stood beside me, but George was at the flat in Diagon Alley, staying over the shop.

Dad's mouth opened and closed but no words came out. He reminded me uncannily of a dying goldfish screaming for the soothing touch of water.

"But he can't be missing," Ron said hurriedly, "That's completely mental!" I kept my mouth shut for once; the butterflies lay still in my stomach, watching, waiting.

Mum shoved the newspaper into his hands. "Read it," she said between sniffs, as she tried to contain her sobs.

I watched as Ron's eyes darted across the page, but the headline was clear: 'Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, MISSING.' The air caught in my throat and I felt like I was going to be sick. Ron just stood there, frozen, his mouth slightly open. "Harry Potter, otherwise known as the Boy Who Lived, was reported missing last night when they found his apartment empty and no reported sightings of him in the past week," he read quietly. "His apartment was recently searched, but the only evidence found was blood spattered up the wall of his bathroom. Further tests have proven that it was his blood, not dragon's, which is sometimes used instead to scare the public and those closest to the victims..."I leant my back against the wall to steady myself; my head felt like it was going to explode.

After that, things just got worse. We had to move due to some curse that was placed on the house. We became even poorer, and each one of us continued to sink deeper and deeper into ourselves.

Something happened that day Harry went missing, and after all this time, nobody's still quite sure what. So instead we all blame it on the old and new leaders of the world. The old leaders were greedy and selfish. They sold their power so that humanity would be able to live forever. No one would ever age, grow old and die, again. And the new leaders kept their side of the bargain. That's why I have been seventeen for the past two years, and will remain seventeen... forever. But when the new leaders were put in charge of the countries and continents, there was a change in the atmosphere, in everything. I've never seen the new leaders before, but some people say they're aliens. Others say they're Dementors in human form. I agree with the second theory more than I do the first. Ever since they became all-powerful, the rain is endless, the sky is never blue and it snows every other week. And worst of all, no one smiles anymore, ever.

I feel like an ignorant little child when mum and dad start talking about the subject. It's all very complicated and what not. Nobodies sure where the new leaders have come from, who they are, what their purpose is... It makes my head hurt just thinking about it.

I look over at the painting and feel my skin prickle as the hair's on my arms stand on end. "Harry..." I mutter quietly. I feel his presence, and yet, there's no one in this room but me, my desk, my bed and that god for saken painting. I swallow as the anger burns in my chest. I want to slash the canvas into to pieces, I want to hear the parchment rip, the frame snap! My pulse quickens. I hate that painting, I hate it more than anything; the new leaders, Kieran, even more than Zacharias Smith. I smile a bit at that.

And yet, at the same time, I want to touch the painting, feel the oil paints beneath my palms, gaze into those blank eyes... I scare myself. I must be going mad.


End file.
